


new memories

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “Geralt?” he asked in disbelief.It was him. There was no way it wasn’t, but he was so young. So small. Twelve or thirteen, maybe. His hair was already lightened from the mutations, though he knew—from stories—that his natural hair was dark. Jaskier stepped forward without even thinking, reaching out for him.Suddenly there was the sharp end of a stick, a dummy for a sword, pressing against his stomach.“How do you know my name?” he asked, glaring. “Who are you?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 667





	new memories

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin
> 
> disclaimer that i tried to find accurate info for this fic but a lot of the info was conflicting and i believe, based on what ive been told, this follows game canon more but honestly idk just take everything with a grain of salt

Jaskier didn’t remember very much upon waking up. He opened his eyes and stared up at the sky, dark with stars. “What the fuck,” he grumbled, head pounding. He tried to remember— _anything._

He remembered being with Geralt and encountering a magnificent beast, unlike any of the others he had ever seen before. He remembered stumbling toward it, feeling drawn. He remembered, maybe most importantly, Geralt yelling at him—

“ _Stop!_ ” he had said. “Jaskier, don’t touch—”

But the beast had lowered its head, crystallized horns sparkling under the sunlight. Jaskier had reached out, touching one of them—and that was all he could remember.

Sitting up, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Unsurprisingly, he was still in the woods. But there was no sign of—“Geralt!” he yelled, cupping the sides of his mouth. “ _Geralt!”_

Nothing, just crickets.

Frowning, he stood on shaky legs, leaning against a tree for support. There was something— _different_ about these woods. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He glanced down; he wore the same clothes, though dirty and torn.

Deciding there was nothing else to do, he moved on.

Jaskier walked through the trees, taking a break every once in a while. His mouth was painfully dry.

That’s when he heard it—“Thank the Gods,” he breathed as he rushed forward, pushing branches out of the way. He stumbled forward and fell near the edge of the stream, scooping water up with his hands and taking a sip of the cool water before splashing his face, rinsing his hands and arms, just wanting to feel a little _clean_.

Sighing, he sat back, pushing his wet hair out of his face.

“Where the fuck am I?” he asked, staring at his reflection. “What happened?”

But none of those questions were as important as he one he didn’t ask, too scared of the answer. _Where was Geralt?_

*

Jaskier didn’t move again until morning, the sun high in the sky, warm on his face. He hadn’t even realized he’d been sitting there for so long, dazed and confused, trying to think of an explanation for what had happened but more importantly how to _fix_ it.

How to get back to Geralt.

Maybe that beast had transferred him to a different part of the Continent, like a portal. If so, he really only had one option: travel back.

Groaning, he scrubbed his face with his hands, tugging at his hair. Geralt could’ve at least gotten teleported _with_ him.

Suddenly there was the crack of a twig, too close for comfort. Jaskier pulled his hands away from his face, heart pounding as his eyes flickered around, searching. If he didn’t know where he is—if he could be _anywhere_ —there was no telling what kind of animals roamed these woods.

Jaskier reached down, grateful for the dagger Geralt had insisted he carry with him, always tucked in his boot. Standing up, he held the dagger, ready for anything.

_I’m not dying, not before I see Geralt again,_ he thought, slowly walking forward, listening.

There was another crack, even closer. Jaskier took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I don’t know who you are,” he called, cursing his own voice for being so unsteady, “but I don’t want any trouble, okay? I don’t even want to _be_ here.”

It was silent. Not even any crickets.

Suddenly a figure, unexpectedly small, popped out from between two trees. Jaskier turned toward them, still holding his dagger. But then—he dropped it, eyes widening.

“Geralt?” he asked in disbelief.

It was him. There was no way it wasn’t, but he was so _young_. So _small_. Twelve or thirteen, maybe. His hair was already lightened from the mutations, though he knew—from stories—that his natural hair was dark. Jaskier stepped forward without even thinking, reaching out for him.

Suddenly there was the sharp end of a stick, a dummy for a sword, pressing against his stomach.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, glaring. “Who are you?”

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Oh, oh, Gods,” he said, feeling sick. He was in the _past_.

*

Geralt— _young_ Geralt—led him through the woods.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked nervously.

He held his head high. He was still so short, but not for long. “If you won’t talk to me,” he said, “you’ll have to talk to Vesemir.”

Jaskier stuttered a bit, nearly tripping. He had also heard of him, of course, in stories but only briefly. Geralt always spoke of him with an unexpected fondness and warmth. His skin prickled as they followed a confusing path.

“How far is it?”

Geralt just grunted. Ah, apparently that was _not_ something he learned as an adult.

Finally Jaskier saw it—Kaer Morhen. He had also heard of this place in Geralt’s stories, but it wasn’t fallen, like he described it. It wouldn’t be attacked for a few more decades. Geralt led him through the courtyard without a word; Jaskier saw a few other boys fussing around, mostly sparring, though they all stopped to look at him.

Vesemir was easy to spot, somehow, hair pulled back and standing quietly by himself.

“Geralt,” he said sharply, eyeing Jaskier. “You can’t just bring strangers here. You know that.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt nodded, staring at his feet. “He was in the woods, near the path.”

It was so surreal, seeing Geralt like— _this_. Himself, but not quite. Not the Geralt he knew and, frankly, _loved_. He would have many more experiences, good and bad, all shaping him in different ways, before he met Jaskier.

Unless—unless he was stuck here. Unless there was no way back.

Jaskier barely realized he was hyperventilating until he felt a steady hand on his back. He looked over—Vesemir. “Breathe,” he said firmly.

He nodded curtly, trying. Finally, after a few attempts, he calmed down.

“Come,” Vesemir said. His voice wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He kept a hand on his back as he led him away from the courtyard.

*

Vesemir led him inside. There was a fireplace, burning bright. Geralt followed them until—“Out,” Vesemir said once they had reached one of many tables, surrounded by stools. Geralt stared at him for a moment before turning and leaving. There was no argument, or backtalk. 

Jaskier almost laughed, slumping on one of the stools. “He’s so— _different_.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting across from him.

Jaskier took a deep breath. From the stories he had been told, he could trust Vesemir. “I’m not supposed to be… _here_ ,” he said slowly.

Vesemir nearly smiled, but not quite. “No, you aren’t. Kaer Morhen isn’t—”

“No,” he interrupted as politely as he could, a hand in the air. “I’m not from… here. I mean.” Jaskier sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m from the future.” Vesemir stared at him blankly. “I know that sounds crazy,” he continued quickly, “but it’s true. I—I know Geralt, but in the future. When he’s older. _Different_.”

Vesemir stared at him, silent. Jaskier fidgeted, expecting to be laughed at or—worse—kicked out. He wouldn’t know what to do if that happened. If he was on his own. 

“How?” he asked finally.

Jaskier took that as a good sign, relaxing slightly. “I was with Geralt, actually, when we stumbled across a, uh, a beast. He very clearly told me _not_ to touch it, but… I did.” Jaskier really should start listening to him. “It was magnificent. The beast, with sparkling horns and—and intelligent eyes. But when I touched it, I passed out, I think. Woke up here, in these woods.”

Vesemir hummed, leaning back a bit. Jaskier’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Do you know what it was?” he asked hopefully. “The beast?”

Vesemir sighed. “I do not.”

“But—but how?” he sputtered, not understanding. “Geralt mentioned a—a book, a collection of beasts. How can you not _know_? What am I supposed to do?”

Vesemir looked at him with pity. Jaskier felt unexpectedly angry. “New beasts, new mutations, are constantly being discovered. The book is here, yes, but no such monster is listed in it. Yet, at least.”

Jaskier nearly growled, standing up, slamming his hands on the table, dishes clattering. “I can’t stay here,” he said. “I need to get back to—to my life. To Geralt.”

“Sounds as if you care for him,” he replied, too calm.

Jaskier glared at him. “I do,” he said stiffly. “And I will be damned if I’m separated from him like this.”

Vesemir leaned forward. “But you’re not,” he said, still too calm, annoyingly calm. “He’s out there, probably eavesdropping. He has a bad habit of that.”

“That’s not—” Jaskier began before stopping, biting the inside of his cheek. That was Geralt, yes, but it wasn’t—“That’s not _my_ Geralt,” he said, swallowing thickly.

Vesemir tilted his head, squinting at him. “You don’t just care for him,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Good, because Jaskier wasn’t answering. “You feel for him, strongly.”

“Is that any of your business?” he asked coldly before feeling a spark of guilt; this was the man who had raised Geralt, had been like a father to him. He slumped back on the stool. “I need to get back to him,” he said, softer. “He’s probably worried.”

Vesemir sighed heavily. “I can only suggest the obvious, not knowing much about the beast.”

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m listening.” He was willing to do _anything_.

“Find the beast,” he said simply. “Repeat your actions.”

*

Jaskier stood on the outskirts of the keep with Vesemir, hands folded in front of him. Geralt had accompanied them. He never took his eyes off Jaskier.

“What if I can’t find it?” he asked, hushed. But it was pointless; he knew Geralt could hear him. He had asked many questions after their conversation with a childlike curiosity, and Jaskier had debated what to do—tell him the truth or lie.

But Vesemir had decided for him. “Shush, Geralt.” Firm, but warm. Like a father scolding their child.

Geralt had pouted, and it was a sight to behold. He was so expressive, now. Nothing like the man he had met all those years ago, distrustful and closed off.

After Geralt had walked off, glaring at nothing in particular, Vesemir had turned to him.

“He’s never shown so much interest in a visitor before,” he remarked, mouth curling in what looked like amusement.

Jaskier’s skin prickled, goosebumps on his arms. “Is this—I don’t understand,” he said as they walked, down the path, through the woods, headed nowhere. “Will he remember this, when I get back? Or—how does this work?” he asked, though he knew Vesemir had no answer.

“I guess you will have to ask him,” he said eventually, the sky darkening again. “You should stay,” he added after a moment, “until morning.”

Jaskier slowed down, looking up at the sky. “Should I?” he asked, visibly hesitating. “Maybe me staying here will, uh, fuck with the future— _change_ it.”

“I think,” he said, turning them back toward Kaer Morhen, “there is no way of knowing, and you have to take a chance. For better or worse.”

*

Vesemir led him to a room for a night. It was small, predictably, and dusty. They obviously did not get very many visitors. He placed a blanket—with concerning stains—on the bed, nodding. “I’ll get you in the morning. For breakfast.”

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed, firm under him, and buried his face in his hands.

He was a grown man, dammit. He wasn’t going to cry, not yet. He would find the beast and fix this. He would get back to—the door opened suddenly, without warning, and he startled, looking up. Geralt, in all his youth, stood in the doorway.

“Geralt,” he breathed, heart squeezing.

“You’re hiding something,” he said, “and so is Vesemir.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. He knew this wasn’t him, the man he was missing. This was a boy, who still had so much to learn. For better or worse. “Come,” he said, patting the bed and ignoring the burn in the back of his throat. “Sit.”

Geralt squinted at him, distrusting, before slowly walking over and joining him. He was silent, and Jaskier closed his eyes, just—enjoying the moment, for a second. When he set off in search of the beast, who knew what would happen.

He might die. If so, he wanted his last memory to be of Geralt, even if he wasn’t quite him.

“You’re upset,” he said. Jaskier opened his eyes. Geralt was watching him, mouth twisted in a frown. “Why?”

Jaskier wished he could tell him everything, just—unload it, but he couldn’t. Witcher or not, he was still just a child. Instead he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, unthinking. Geralt stiffened for a split-second before relaxing, though he looked no less confused by the action.

“I know this is—out of nowhere, but don’t believe them, okay?”

Geralt blinked slowly. “Who?”

“ _Them_ ,” he replied, gesturing around them. “Any of them. Any person who says you are not _good_. Don’t believe them. Don’t let them convince you that you are not good or worth—” Jaskier swallowed “— _love_. You are capable of _so much,_ Geralt, and you deserve so much. They will try to drag you down with them, but you cannot let them. Okay?”

Geralt looked at him like he was short of a marble, rightfully so. Jaskier smiled, eyes watering.

“Just—promise me you’ll never forget that, okay?” he asked, needing to hear it. “Please.”

Geralt wiggled out from under his arm, standing up. He stared at him, biting the inside of his cheek. “Goodnight,” he said finally, turning away.

Jaskier took a shaky breath, scrubbing at his eyes. Geralt stopped in the doorway.

“I will,” he said quietly before quickly running away, slamming the door behind him.

*

Jaskier left after breakfast. Geralt was nowhere to be seen. For the better, really. He shrugged the pack over his shoulders, full of necessities like food and water and even a blanket.

“Thank you,” he said to Vesemir. He hesitated, unsure of how to express what he needed to say.

Vesemir’s eyes crinkled around the edges. “I will do my best to keep him safe,” he said. “I always intended to.”

Jaskier nodded. He looked over his shoulder, wishing selfishly that he could see Geralt one last time before his departure, just in case things went south and he never made it back, to here or the future. Shaking his head, he squared his shoulders.

“Goodbye,” he said with just the slightest tremor in his voice.

Vesemir nodded. “Good luck.”

*

Jaskier traveled, following the map that had been drawn for him, showing him the path out of the woods. He stopped for the night near a stream, pulling out some crackers, also a gift from Vesemir. He understood, now, why Geralt had always talked about him so fondly. He didn’t show very much emotion on his face, and he could be a bit harsh, but he was also kind in his own way.

Sitting near the stream, he nibbled on the crackers, debating where to start. He knew where they had been, _before_. The best thing to do was just travel back there, but—that would take months, especially without a horse.

“Well,” he said to the empty air. “I guess I’ll finally be buying a horse.”

Not long after finishing his third cracker, eating slowly, he heard the familiar snap of a twig and stiffened. Putting the rest of the crackers down, he reached for his dagger and looked back over his shoulder.

Geralt stepped out from the trees, looking rightfully like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Jaskier visibly relaxed, letting out a sigh.

“Vesemir is going to be mad,” he said softly.

Geralt stepped forward, head down. “I—I don’t know what you’re hiding, or him, and I—I can’t explain it.” He looked up finally. “But I didn’t want to part ways without saying goodbye.”

It was the most sheepish Jaskier had ever seen him, almost shy. He hadn’t perfected the skill of hiding his emotions just yet.

He smiled slightly, unable to help himself. “Sit with me,” he said for the second time since encountering the young boy. Geralt walked over, sitting down. He kicked off his shoes and stuck his feet in the water. Jaskier hesitated for a split-second before doing the same. Unlike Geralt, he shivered. They were silent, both staring at their feet, obscured by the water.

“If I asked for the truth,” Geralt said finally, kicking the water, “would you tell me?”

Jaskier sighed lightly. “Honestly?” He wanted to, but—he also knew he couldn’t. “No.”

Geralt nodded; his hair was white, yes, but shorter, barely curling under his chin. He looked the same, and yet different. Jaskier barely realized he was staring at him. “What are you looking at?” he asked gruffly.

He startled and looked away. “You—you remind me of a friend,” he said slowly, too honest. If Geralt suspected anything, he didn’t show it.

“That’s why you’re leaving, right?” he said, kicking the water again. “To find them?”

Jaskier smiled to himself. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I have to. Find him, I mean.”

“Why?” he asked, looking at him with that same bright-eyed childlike curiosity.

Jaskier stared at the water. His heart was heavy with the weight of missing Geralt, even when he was right here with him. “I wouldn’t know what to do without him,” he said finally, barely a whisper. He knew he could hear him, with his enhanced senses.

“I’ve never had someone like that,” Geralt said, scrunching his nose.

Jaskier leaned into him, pressing their shoulders together. “You will,” he said, swallowing back a wave of emotion. He thought of Yennefer, and Cirilla, and even himself. “Just wait.”

*

Geralt finally left after an hour or so. He had hesitated for a long moment before wrapping his arms around Jaskier. It was a brief hug, barely lasting a second, but Jaskier nearly doubled over, sobbing.

Afterwards, he packed up his bag and continued following the map.

*

Once out of the woods, and back on flat ground, he took a moment, preparing himself for what was undoubtedly going to be a very long—and lonely—journey.

Jaskier rolled the map up, tucking it in his bag, and started down the path.

*

Jaskier traveled slowly for the first week or so before he stumbled across a small town and bought a horse. He named him, white with black spots, Pegasus, smiling slightly when he thought about Geralt’s disbelieving “ _really?_ ”

With Pegasus, he traveled much faster. Weeks turned to months. He was nearly there, back at the exact spot he had been before, when he spotted—a flurry of movement, darting through the woods.

Jaskier stopped, jumping down.

There was no mistaking it—those sparkling horns. Jaskier’s heart lurched as he turned toward his horse. “You have to stay here, okay?”

Pegasus snorted in his face. Right. Well, not all horses could be like Roach.

He pulled him away from the road, tying him to a tree. “I’ll be right back,” he said before entering the woods, brandishing his dagger.

“Hey, dickhead,” he called as he stalked through the woods. “Show yourself and take me the fuck _back_.”

Predictably, the beast did not listen. Grimacing, he continued trekking through the woods, sharply turning his head at every sound. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

“You can’t just leave me here!” he exclaimed finally, throwing his dagger. The dagger bounced off a tree and flew back at him. He stumbled out of the way. “I don’t belong here! Don’t you _understand_ that? He needs me and I need _him_!”

The sun was low in the sky, the forest darkening around him.

Jaskier sniffed, suddenly feeling exhausted, bone-tired. “Please,” he pleaded with the air, slumping against a tree and thinking of Pegasus, alone. He should—go back, get him. But he was so _tired_. Of everything. “ _Please_.”

*

Jaskier opened his eyes, blinking a few times. He was in the same spot, but there was something— _different_. He stood on shaky legs and walked out of the woods. Pegasus was still there, waiting for him. He was torn; glad that he was okay, certainly, but fucking— _devastated_ that he was still there.

“Fuck,” he said, cupping the horse’s face. Pegasus snorted, displeased, but he just held on. “I’m _never_ —”

But he was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. “Jaskier!”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat; he knew that voice. He _loved_ that voice, deep and gravely. He spun around. “ _Geralt_.” It was _his_ Geralt, tall and broad, rushing toward him. Geralt hugged him, arms slipping around his waist.

Jaskier let out a sob, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

They were both quiet for a few long minutes, just holding each other. Finally Jaskier pulled back, swallowing thickly. “I—I don’t understand,” he said, touching the side of his face. “How are you here, but—but Pegasus—?”

Geralt’s mouth twisted in amusement, and his heart fucking _soared_. Oh, how he had missed him.

“You named your fucking horse Pegasus, really?”

Jaskier barked out a laugh, burying his face back in his neck, trembling from his laughter. Geralt just patiently held him, rubbing his back. He pulled back again once he had calmed down. “The—the beast,” he stammered, slowly connecting the dots.

Geralt’s arms tightened instinctively around him, nodding.

“Oh,” he breathed, butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t really care about the details; he was just glad to be back.

Geralt stared at him, something searching in his eyes. “I remember,” he said suddenly.

Jaskier stared back, biting the inside of his cheek. “I—I didn’t know if you would,” he admitted sheepishly. “I mean, I didn’t even know if—did it really happen?”

He simply shrugged, pulling him closer. Jaskier had no fight left in him; he curled himself up, standing, against Geralt’s chest, suddenly so tired again. “I felt—” he hesitated “— _lighter_ , somehow, when I woke up this morning.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, nosing at his hair. “I think it has something to do with that. You—changed a part of me, Jaskier, way back then.”

It was all so confusing, still, but Jaskier could hardly say any of it was a mistake if he had somehow made Geralt realize, sooner, his own worth. Pulling back, he brushed his fingertips along his cheek. “I was so scared,” he admitted, almost to himself. “I was scared I’d never see you again.”

Geralt stared at him, jaw tensing. “That’ll never happen,” he said stiffly.

Jaskier smiled, small and sweet. He wanted to—confess _everything_. Wanted to tell him how he felt, now that he knew how quickly things could be taken from him. But… maybe not yet, just a little longer. After Geralt no longer looked like he was barely holding himself together.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Come on; I’ve been surviving on crackers for, like, a month.”

He could’ve stopped in towns, but he had been in such a rush he just pushed through.

Geralt nodded curtly, turning away, though he kept an arm wrapped around his shoulders as they walked down the path.


End file.
